


Honey, This Mirror Isn't Big Enough for the Three of Us

by Edgelord (lostlikeme), MortuaryBee



Category: Bandom, Eminem (Musician), Marilyn Manson (Band), Music RPF, My Chemical Romance, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Bullying, Crossdressing, Homophobia, M/M, Transphobia, no betas we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21840649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlikeme/pseuds/Edgelord, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MortuaryBee/pseuds/MortuaryBee
Summary: Eminem and Marilyn Manson share a favorite past-time together.
Relationships: Eminem & Marilyn Manson, Eminem/Gerard Way, Marilyn Manson/Gerard Way
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Honey, This Mirror Isn't Big Enough for the Three of Us

**Author's Note:**

> [Cars](https://youtu.be/Im3JzxlatUs) by Gary Numan.

Urine sprays the wall in a steady stream. At the edge of the alleyway, the pavement is illuminated in the orange glow from a streetlight. A shadow passes by, indistinguishable in the dark. Eminem finishes first and shakes off, anxious with Manson so close. The black silhouette stretches out and then disappears as it ascends the steps to the apartment Manson is currently pissing on.

“You know my car is like, right fucking here, right?”

“What, you want me to piss there instead?” Marilyn Manson sings his response to the tune of Cars by Gary Numan. “ _Here in your car, I feel drunkest of all_.” He sways his dick back and forth to the beat, splattering piss farther up the brick. “Lock you the fuck out, while I sit here and piss, in your car.” 

Eminem ducks out from the dark strip between the two buildings and catches the shadow redhanded, dropping his keys on the pavement like a regular fuckup. He sobers up a bit at the sight of him - the familiar makeup and stringy black hair. Eminem’s hand gestures haplessly in circles, brain struggling to place the face with malt liquor swimming in his veins. 

“It’s that guy,” Eminem coughs out at last. “That one guy from that one band.”

Marilyn Manson peers out from behind him, forcing Eminem to stifle a shudder before he hunches out of the way. They look at the guy still shuffling his feet in front of what is obviously his apartment building. 

“That mini me wannabe.” He slinks closer to Eminem to talk in his ear. “Next in line to the wrist slit take down…” Manson takes a swig from the bottle in his hand. “...bent in half like a barbie doll on my meat cleaver, gonna beat her, Gerard fucking Gay.”

Gerard turns his head at the familiar massacring of his name, but he looks disoriented and confused. If he sees them at all, he doesn’t appear to care.

“Real original.” Gerard rests his weight on the door, jiggles the knob, and slams his fist into the wood in frustration. “Fuck! You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

Eminem laughs, finishes off his beer, and throws the bottle at Gerard. It shatters at his feet, between the steps and the wall of the apartment building.

“Fucking groupie!” 

Gerard’s body tenses, and the key in his hand skates over the face of the doorknob. He takes a deep breath, twirls around too quickly, and catches himself on the railing.

“Okay, tonight is not the night motherfuckers!” He leans back against the door to support his drunken stance as he pulls a switchblade from his hoodie pocket. “Come at me! Ozzy ass - can’t get a man - son.” 

Manson’s eyes slide to Eminem, who shrugs. Behind them is the beer distributor and further back, the strip club. Less than a couple feet ahead is Eminem’s car, illegally parked in a handicap space. They could get in and drive home. 

“You know I got the shit,” says Eminem.

They could, but they’re not going to.

Instead they come up behind Gerard like it was choreographed in a music video, like they had practice. Eminem charges ahead, going for the throat like a pitbull in a dogfight. Gerard swings his hand and Eminem howls when the blade cuts his face. 

“You’re fuckin’ dead!”

Eminem grabs his delicate wrist with one hand and uses the other to dig his chewed off nails into the soft skin of his neck. When Manson takes the knife, Gerard grits his teeth, cheek pressed against the door.

“Who the fuck are you? Get off!”

Manson sinks his fingers into Gerard’s hair and pulls, peeling his head back from the wood by just a few inches to get a good look at his face. Gerard blinks as his eyes struggle to focus.

“Are you...are you actually Marilyn fucking Manson?”

Eminem imitates his voice in a high falsetto. 

“Oh my god, are you like, Marylin Manson?” Manson laughs at the impression and saws off a lock of hair. Gerard flinches. “Shut the fuck up and open the door.” 

“Are you serious?” Gerard manages a shaky laugh. “No fucking way.”

Eminem shoves his hand into the middle pocket of his hoodie, grabbing his gun and digging the metal into the small of Gerard’s back through the layers of fabric. 

“You feel this?”

Manson plucks the switchblade from Gerard’s fingers.

“He’s not just happy to see you.”

“Get the fuck off me!” 

The key is stone-cold frozen in his hand. Eminem flattens him against the front door. Manson grins. 

“You want me to blast your pansy ass?” Eminem’s voice is gaining a dangerous edge. “Open. The. Door.”

“Screw you!” 

Gerard hunches his shoulders, and his slurring, soggy stance almost straightens up from the rush of adrenaline. He misses the keyhole a second time anyway, too intoxicated to control his coordination. Manson cackles against his ear and encloses Gerard’s hand with his own, steadying his grip. His voice pours into his ear like hot tea, scalding.

“Poor little poser girl can’t even open her own door.” They turn the key together and Gerard’s breath falters. “No wonder you need me.”

The door swings open and Gerard tips forward like an inflatable doll suddenly thrown off balance. Eminem catches him by the hood of his sweatshirt. When Gerard looks back over his shoulder, Eminem pushes him into the ground like a schoolyard bully and laughs.

“Don’t trip,” Eminem says, too late. “That last step is a real doozy.”

This drunk, Gerard can’t catch his balance, can’t catch his breath, can’t get a foothold on the polished marble floors with his worn out Converse shoes. The air is knocked from his lungs as he barely avoids a faceplant by breaking the fall with his elbows. Eminem steps on his hand as he crosses the room, shiny white sneaker crushing his fingers. 

“Don’t forget to wipe your feet on the doormat.”

“Ow, ow, fuck!” 

Gerard’s voice is hoarse and his fingers are painfully red. Eminem heads straight for the kitchen to look for more booze. Gerard is torn between shock and disbelief.

“So you’re Marilyn Mansion, but who the fuck is that?”

He gestures to the guy in the kitchen, rifling through his liquor cabinet.

“Aw, Slim, he doesn’t even recognize you.”

“Slim?” Gerard shakes his head in confusion. “Wait. Slim Shady? _Eminem?_ We don’t even know each other.”

“You do now,” Eminem calls behind him. 

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Gotta get our kicks somewhere.” 

Manson kicks Gerard back down as he tries to get up. He grabs Gerard by the hair, dragging him down the carpeted hallway into the bedroom. Gerard twists around and lands a hard punch on Manson’s jaw, throwing him off balance.

“Let go you freak!” 

Manson clenches his hair harder as he falls, pulling Gerard with him. When Gerard ends up on top of him, Manson shoves him away like he’s been burned, using his body as leverage to stand back up.

“Fuck off! This ain’t a free ride.”

When Gerard opens his eyes, Eminem is chugging straight from a bottle of vodka as he slides open his bedroom closet door. When he sees the contents he snorts so loud he sends spit flying. The vodka bottle shakes against the end table like a dropped coin when Eminem sets it down.

“Look at this shit!” 

He yanks a frilly black dress off a hanger and holds it in front of himself, striking an effeminate pose. Eminem laughs and tosses it onto the bed. 

“This little faggot got a whole walk-in closet full of ‘em.”

Gerard is eyeing the exit and has only just begun planning his escape when Eminem pokes his head back from out of the closet. He wags his gun like a disappointed parent and shakes his head. 

“Ah ah ah.” The pile of clothes on the floor is growing as Eminem tears through his closet. “Unless you want your brain on your ceiling, I wouldn’t think about it.”

Manson rummages through an overstuffed vanity in the center of the closet and pulls out a jar of thick black stage make-up.

“And people are still calling me a fag. What the hell do they think this sad, pitiful little thing is?”

“Better than you, you sadistic coward! Now you’re only relevant for harrassing my guitarist like a fucking kindergartener.”

“Oh, yeah?” 

He leans down to grab Gerard’s face and hold it still. He wipes the makeup sloppily across Gerard’s brow. It ruins the performers meticulously applied blood red eyeshadow. 

“Since you think you can play this better than me...” He grabs the dress from the bed and throws it across Gerard’s defiant face. “Put it on.”

“Fuck off! You probably own more dresses than I do.” Gerard struggles, smearing the dark grease further. “Just come out as queer you closet case.”

“It wasn’t a request.”

“Fuck you. You’re just a pissy, worn-out poster boy. Go get your ego stroked by someone else.” 

“Are you fuckin’ retarded?” Eminem grabs the back of his neck and squeezes. “It was an order, faggot. So put on this fucking dress before we cut your dick off and run it through your six hundred dollar blender and then feed it to you, okay?”

Eminem brandishes the gun again for emphasis. “Keep saying no, bitch.” He fires three shots in time with mouthing the words: _See. What. Happens._ They hit closer to Gerard each time.

The gunfire has Gerard clutching his ears and curling into himself. Manson kicks the bottom of his Converse to ground him. 

“The dress, Avril.” 

Gerard huffs and uncurls just enough to scrunch the dress up and shove his feet through the neck hole. He’s in the middle of trying to wiggle it up over his lumpy hoodie when Marilyn Manson narrows his eyes.

“Wear it for real.” 

“It won’t fit over the hoodie.”

“So take it off.”

“I hope you know how fucking sick you are, asshole.” 

Gerard slithers out of the t-shirt and hoodie and pulls up the straps as quickly as he can, still trying to hide his chest. Manson laughs.

“Aw, queer’s got little tits too.”

Eminem is too preoccupied with Gerard’s expansive clothing collection to notice. He shakes his head and waves a hand at them.

“Dude. Gay.”

Gerard scowls.

“Congratulations, I’m in my own fucking dress. That I already owned for my own personal enjoyment and comfort.”

Manson scrunches his face at Gerard in the dress, still wearing pants and shoes. 

“Those pants are utter shit. Just stick to copying people who know what they’re doing. Slightly less of an eyesore that way.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Gerard crosses his arms. “I know it doesn’t fucking go. And I’m closer to Billie Joe than your sorry ass anyway.”

“You’re still wearing them.”

“I’m not taking my pants off, creep.”

“Not for long.”

Manson leers over him like a boogeyman, one boot on either side of Gerard’s bent knees. Gerard tries to backpedal but his palm catches the dress, trapping him within arm’s reach. Their eyes meet for a moment, and then Manson is on him, straddling his legs to keep him locked in place.

He makes a grab for Gerard’s waist, but he twists around onto his stomach and the zipper slips through his grip. Manson’s fingers curl around the waistband of his skinny jeans instead, which provide just enough purchase for Manson to drag him back between his legs before he can crawl away. 

Gerard freezes when he feels something hard press against his hip. Manson yanks his zipper down and attacks the column of three buttons next. Gerard recognizes the familiar shape of his switchblade in Manson’s front pocket. 

“Get off me! Help!” 

Manson ignores him, trying to pull Gerard’s pants down over his hips. They’re tailored so well they won’t budge. He switches tactics, reaching for the pant legs at Gerard’s ankles. Gerard curls his fingers around the switchblade and kicks Manson in the head. 

“Shut the fuck up - ow!” 

He slips the weapon into his underwear while Manson is still nursing the wound, scooching back until he hits the bedroom wall.

“You good?”

Eminem sticks his head out from Gerard’s closet. Manson rubs his forehead.

“Yeah, little bitch fucking kicked me.” 

Manson stands back up when he regains focus. He takes a step toward Gerard and he throws up his hands in defeat.

“Fine, I’ll do it!” Gerard agrees hastily. “I’ll take them off myself.”

Gerard reaches under his skirt to push his pants down without being seen. He pulls them off one leg at a time, and throws one of his sneakers at Eminem’s head. It misses wildly. 

“Happy now?”

Now everyone can trace the curve of Gerard’s pale legs until they disappear underneath the hemline of the black dress, but they’re not. No one is. Manson is staring at Eminem, and Eminem is lost inside his own ego. Gerard turns in time to catch him parading in front of the closet in a tight black top with spaghetti straps over the wifebeater he had on underneath his hoodie.

“How do I look?”

“Like a fucking idiot.” Manson scoffs. “But anyone would in that rag.”

Gerard rolls his eyes.

“You can’t fill out shit. Put it back.”

“Tch. Fuck you, man.” 

He tears it off like a child throwing a tantrum and marches over to Gerard. For the first time, he takes in the full sight of him in the dress. Without clothes on underneath, Eminem can see his collarbones and the soft divot at the base of the neck. His fists tighten.

“Looks like fagerella finally became a real girl.”

Gerard sneers.

“Jealous?”

The backhand cracks across his face and leaves him gasping with a bloody nose. It drips down over his lips. Eminem takes a deep breath, shakes out his hands, and counts backward from ten. Manson takes this time to saunter over and pull Gerard’s face into his crotch. Eminem scrunches his nose and stares at a picture on the wall. 

Manson is practically purring.

“If you wanna get bloody you’re gonna have to eat me.”

Eminem’s stops bouncing on the balls of his feet and heads for the front door.

“And that’s my cue. See you in five.”

Manson nods his head without turning around, hypnotized by the sight of Gerard’s blood smeared across the front of his pants. Eminem jumps down the steps two at a time and makes it to his car in less than a minute flat. 

Outside, the sky is gray; so late it’s almost early. First, he has to open the passenger’s door to pop the trunk. He returns with two rolls of duct tape just in time to catch Gerard spitting on Marilyn Manson.

“You fucking cunt.”

Manson yanks Gerard’s head away from his crotch, but Gerard looks him in the eye and spits again, saliva gleaming on Manson’s shiny black pants. Eminem moves from his spot by the doorway reflexively, closing his fist and punching him in the back of the head on autopilot. 

“Cut it out fairy!” 

The next time Eminem hits him with a closed fist there’s blood on his knuckles when he draws back, illuminating the marks Gerard’s teeth left behind. Manson turns to him with a raised eyebrow.

“Fairy?” 

“Look man,” Eminem lowers his voice. “I gotta switch it up sometimes, you know how it is.”

“Well yeah, but fairy?”

“Like you got somethin’ better?”

“It doesn’t hit hard enough. Fruitcake?”

“Man, that’s the same shit.”

“Cocksucking shiteater?”

“Man! Ain’t nobody got time for all that.”

“Fudge...packer?”

“Yeah, shit.” Eminem laughs. “Fudgepacker, I forgot about that one! Shit, write that down.”

The conversation becomes so engaging that Eminem doesn’t notice Gerard trying to make a break for it until he’s halfway to the door. Gerard almost slips into the hallway, but Eminem catches his ankle, pulling him back into their orbit. 

“Come on.” Eminem gestures to Gerard. “Help me with this.” 

“Because my music isn’t about raping women, I’m gay?” Gerard asks, in a scream. “Screw you and your dumb masculinity bullshit. I’ve paid people to beat me up worse than this.”

“Yeah? Where’s our check then?” Eminem grabs one of Gerard’s flailing wrists. “Hold him.”

Manson barely evades Gerard’s fist before grabbing it. 

“You hold him! I’ve got him.”

“How ‘bout you both get the fuck out my house?!?” 

Gerard punctuates his outrage with a barrage of kicks. His attackers evade most of them by yanking his arms around his back. Manson holds his wrists together while Eminem winds the sticky black tape around them.

“Quit kicking and shut your fucking mouth.”

Eminem presses his hand over Gerard’s mouth, squeezing his cheeks hard. Gerard drags his tongue across Eminem’s hand and he jerks it away like he’s been burned, like they’re third graders afraid of cooties and whatever is wrong with Gerard Way is a thing he could catch. 

He snatches the vodka from the table. He turns back to Gerard with a vicious look in his eyes.

“Baby need his bottle?”

“No way! I’m already wasted.” Gerard’s eyes harden when Eminem unscrews the lid. “What the hell did I ever do to you?” 

Eminem drops the cap and pulls two white round pills from his pocket. 

“What the hell are those?” His voice is rising in pitch. “Drugs, seriously? How fucked are you? Jesus Christ.” 

Gerard tries to turn away but Manson’s large hands hold his head in place. Eminem pushes the small pills between his lips, and Gerard’s body convulses. His wrists grind into each other when he tries to jerk away. He spits the pills back out at Eminem. 

“Stop!” Gerard’s voice cracks. “Somebody fucking help!”

Eminem picks the soggy pills off his wifebeater.

“Man, why you gotta be like that?” 

“Cause you’re tryna fucking kill - ” 

Eminem pushes the pills back into his mouth, immediately followed by the lip of the vodka bottle. It sloshes when Eminem tips it back, forcing the alcohol down Gerard’s throat, carrying the pills down along with it. Gerard scrunches his eyes shut and shudders like he’s going to vomit. He struggles against them fruitlessly. When Gerard tries to spit out the vodka it squirts out around the sides of his mouth. 

“Shit man, you gotta take him.” 

Manson rolls his eyes. “He’s fine.” 

Gerard cringes at the sharp sting in his nostrils. Manson pulls the bottle away from Eminem to take a swig himself while Eminem seals Gerard’s mouth shut with his hand. Eminem looks Gerard dead in the eyes.

“If you puke it up,” he says. “I’m rubbing your face in it.”

With no other choice left, Gerard swallows.

The sound of tape being stretched out rips through the moment like a hacksaw. Manson sneers like a jack-o-lantern while Eminem tears through it with his teeth. Gerard flinches when Eminem slaps a piece over his mouth. The first strip doesn’t stick to his lips, but the second and third do. 

They each grab one of Gerard’s legs and pull him flat on his back. They meet in the middle and tape his ankles together, adhesive attaching eagerly to his skin. By the time they’re finished, Gerard’s eyes are glossy and his vision is blurry. 

Manson laughs and points. “Look who’s gonna cry.” He badly imitates a baby.

Gerard shifts his weight to sit up but fails and ends up back on the floor almost immediately. His face is pink and wet. All he can see are the blurry faces of his attackers looming above him. He makes a noise like an animal trapped beneath a butcher’s knife: desperate, defeated, trying to defy death. Then the tears come. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Eminem covers his ears. “Man, shut him the fuck up.”

The sound of him screaming suddenly takes up all the space in the apartment. Now that he’s started crying, he won’t stop. Even after repeated threats he won’t quiet, like a fire alarm ringing after the batteries have been ripped out. Eminem’s balled fists are shaking.

“Shut the fuck up!” He covers his ears with his hands. “I swear to fucking god if you don’t shut the fuck up I’m going to -”

Manson moves before Gerard or Eminem realize what’s happening. His aim is sure, like when a predator spends time stalking before the strike. The heavy glass vodka bottle connects with the back of Gerard’s head and everything around him is consumed by darkness.

“Yo, we creamed that creampuff!”

“How long did it take you to think of that one?”

“Not as long as it took to do your mom.”  


Eminem swallows another gulp from the vodka bottle and slams the meat of his palm into the car horn. Someone else at the busy intersection honks back when Eminem runs a red light. 

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“We stop at McDonald’s first?”

The car hits a pothole and Gerard jerks awake in the trunk. He rolls onto his side to pull his dress out of the way, but a bump in the road shifts the switchblade in his underwear. The sharp noise of it opening bounces off the walls of the confined space. It cuts through the cotton, grazes his thigh and just barely misses his groin. 

He freezes like a mouse that’s just narrowly avoided a trap, eyes wide in the dark. It takes him a moment to collect himself. Then he inches his fingers along the carpeted interior of the trunk until the cool blade brushes his skin. 

Gerard swallows hard, carefully trying to orient the switchblade in his limited grip. He starts sawing through the duct tape around his wrists. 

In the front of the car, Manson turns the volume knob on the radio all the way to the right. “Cars,” by Gary Numan is playing.

“Here in your car, we were gonna go piss, but we grabbed him instead, so now there’s a fag, _in your car_.”


End file.
